


To the Nines

by dzzyondreams



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Genderbend, always-a-girl-Patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3855775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzzyondreams/pseuds/dzzyondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s nice, sometimes, to be as invisible as everyone else.</p><p>(Or: five times Patricia borrowed clothes from her bandmates, and one time she loaned them out instead).</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Nines

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the bandom_meme prompt "Fem!Patrick/?, While they know she can take care of herself, her band can't help but want to protect her. One way they do this is by dressing her in their clothes in an attempt to ward off boys. (Bonus if its Van days!AU or 5 times fic)." I went a tad off-topic (oops), but hopefully you enjoy, OP!
> 
> Thanks to melusina for the wonderful beta and Jen for the encouragement.

**i.**

Patricia knows how to deal with annoying high school guys and (thanks to Pete) she knows a bit about dealing with college guys as well, but Pete’s nowhere near as daunting as the mass of rowdy, drunk clubgoers they’ll be playing for tonight.  In the fifteen-some hours since they snuck into the club, Pete’s tried many times to reassure Patricia that no one will come to see them anyway because they don’t really have fans yet.  Even though the last part is true, Patricia doesn’t really believe him.  They’re in a Battle of the Bands and that’s a big enough deal that people will be there regardless of their feelings on Fall Out Boy.

Patricia knows that Pete’s excited for the crowds because Pete lives off the attention and excitement of live performance.  For Patricia, being onstage mostly means fighting to keep her stage fright under control while trying to remember all the words.  To make it worse, a good performance means having to shake off some slick opportunist who comes up to her afterward with a line about how she must be good with her mouth, or her hands, or whatever else.  Patricia’s not helpless, but she’s no six-foot tall beefcake, and neither are the guys in her band.  Though no one has made her seriously uncomfortable yet, there have been a couple of close calls.  Those are tense enough.  She doesn’t want to see things get worse.

Thinking about the whole deal isn’t abating Patricia’s nerves, so she tries to focus instead on the scratch of Pete’s pen above her head.  Even without looking, she knows he’s stretched out in some impossible position on his bed, penning angry words that he’ll pass off to her the next time he has a bad day.  The thought brings a strange amount of comfort: Pete may not be big or scary, but he’s tough and fierce and there’s absolutely no one else Patricia would rather have on her side.     

“Hey, Trish.”  Pete bops her on the head with the end of his pen.  “You still with me?”

“What?”  Patricia makes a grab for the pen before Pete can hit her again, but ends up with a fistful of air.  “Yeah, sorry.  I guess I spaced out for a moment there.”

“Yeah?”  Pete’s feet appear in her peripheral vision, and then he slides down to sit next to her.  “What’s up?”

“Tired, I guess.”  Patricia doesn’t want to have another conversation about how she doesn’t like fan attention because it always makes her feel silly and young next to Pete’s experience and comfort with performing.    

“Nah,” Pete says, too smart to fall for that.  “If that were the case you would have passed out by now.  You nervous?”

Patricia shrugs and Pete, interpreting the gesture correctly, puts an arm around her.  “It’s gonna be awesome,” he says.  “Seriously, Trish, people will love you.”

“I don’t want people to love me,” says Trish.  “I just want to write music.”  

“Hm,” says Pete, and Patricia’s certain that this is going to be the moment where he says something awful and ruins everything.  They’re reaching a point where Patricia might call him her best friend, but being best friends with Pete Wentz seems an awful lot like building a house on a fault line.  

Defying all odds, Pete keeps his mouth shut and lets Patricia lean against him.  “Hey,” he says again, when she’s calmed down enough that she actually might doze off soon, “hey, I know.”  

Patricia would be willing to let him have random conversations with himself if he would just do it where he was sitting.  Pete may be bony, but he’s still the best pillow she has at the moment.  

“Let me go a sec,” he says, shaking his arm until Patricia loosens her grip.  She lets her eyes slip closed again after he stands up, leaning against the much harder and colder bed frame.  The mystery of what Pete’s doing is solved when a pile of something whumps into her lap.  The pile turns out to be Pete’s ugliest hoodie and a hat that rivals it for bad design.

“Is this permission to finally throw these in the dumpster?” she asks, though she might miss the teasing opportunities that came along with them were she to actually follow through.  “Or maybe I should burn them, if I just threw them away, you’d totally sort through the trash.”

“They’re for you,” says Pete, grinning that wide grin he gets when he knows his idea is the best.  Patricia’s trusted it with unwavering certainty since the first time she saw it, which was approximately ten seconds after they became a for-real band.  “You’re always saying how they’re repulsive, right?  So if you wear them, maybe no one will want to look at you.”

“Or they’ll think I have horrible taste,” says Patricia.  

“ _Knee socks and shorts_ ,” Pete says, sitting down next to her again.  Patricia punches him in the arm like she always does, but doesn’t chuck his clothes out the window.  They might be good for something.

 

 

**ii.**

“That was the fucking worst,” Patricia shouts, storming out into the chilly Chicago night.  Even the fact that the snow decided to hold off for two hours longer than expected doesn’t cheer her up.  With the way the night’s going, the weather’s probably just waiting for them to start their journey home.  If they ever get to do that.  

“Patricia,” Joe hollers from the door.  “Come back inside, it’s freezing.”  

“I’m fine,” Patricia shouts back, even though she’s already fighting shivers.

“You can’t make me clean up by myself,” says Joe.  “Don’t fucking be another Pete.”

Patricia doesn’t want to talk about Pete, doesn’t want to even _think_ about Pete right now, but she also doesn’t want to be compared with him.  Preferably ever.  “Fuck you,” she spits out, but heads back toward the door.  The look of relief on Joe’s face can probably be seen from the moon.

“You okay?” he says, shutting the door behind her and leaning against the wall.  

“Fine,” says Patricia, even though there are tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.  “I’ll help in a bit.  Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” says Joe.  “Take your time, you know.  If it makes you feel any better, we don’t have to clean up the set.”  That’s true; it’s already loaded into Nick’s personal van and driven off to god knows where.  If Patricia were any less attached to instruments and any more within range, she would be tempted to trash it just to send a message.

“If it makes you feel any worse, we’re gonna have to hold auditions for another drummer,” Patricia counters.  

“We would have done that anyway,” says Joe.  “Now no one has to kick Nick out of the band.”

Joe makes a good point.  Nick’s been with them for almost a month now, which is longer than quite a few of the people they’ve tried, but somehow he hasn’t been able to figure out the trick of holding a steady tempo.  Not to mention that his constant mistakes had thrown Pete off (who’s probably their least solid permanent member) and frankly, without a beat or a bass line, Joe and Patricia hadn’t been able to hold it together at all.  

It was a shitty show before the hecklers in the audience—drunk frat boys, Patricia doesn’t have a doubt—had nearly drowned her out with a command to flash her tits.  It was a shitty show before Pete jumped off the stage, bass in hand, and tried to take down at least five other guys.  It was a shitty show before their drummer walked away from his set in the middle of a song while the bouncer tried to break up the fight, and Patricia couldn’t do anything about it.  

The aftermath is this: Pete at the station, with the keys to the van in his pocket because he’s the only one of them old enough to actually drive a rental; the bar owner pissed beyond belief and unwilling to pay for the (half) set they’d played; Patricia flat out broke because she’d spent her emergency five on a Coke earlier with the assumption that she’d be replacing it in an hour anyway; and no way of getting in touch with anyone who could help them because Joe’s parents never taught him to carry money for an emergency phone call.

“Hey,” Joe says, “let’s go move our stuff, okay, and then we can sit here and wait.  Pete can’t be gone for _that_ long, his mom always comes to get him.”  

Patricia crosses her hands over her chest.  “Can we wait?” she says.  

Joe casts an anguished glance in the direction of the stage, which Patricia understands completely; it holds many months’ worth of allowances in gear.  

“Just until those guys are gone,” she says.  “I don’t want them staring at my… My sweatshirt is in the van.”  

“Here,” he says, grabbing his coat off the back table and handing it to her.  It’s one of those puffy ones that makes him look like the Michelin Man and also makes him great for hugging.  It’s also made for subzero temperatures, but frankly, Patricia doesn’t care about that right now.  It’s not like she can get more sweaty and gross.  

Thus armored, she joins Joe in dragging everything off the stage, aware of the eyes on her but careful to not look up because she honestly can’t take anything more at the moment.  It’s the quickest job they’ve ever done (Joe is none too gentle with Pete’s amp, but it already took a beating once today when Pete jumped off stage holding a bass that was still attached to it) and as glad as Patricia is to be out of view of every single asshole in the place, waiting by the door isn’t much of an improvement.  Joe’s coat makes a decent enough pillow, but the floor is still concrete and every once in awhile, a particularly rough gust worms its way through the door seal and treats them to the growing arctic chill.

“Well,” says Joe, as the wind howls ever-louder outside, “when we’re all famous, you can totally tell this story on MTV.”  

“Yeah right,” says Patricia.  “The story of how I kicked Pete out of the band, maybe.”  Patricia knows she won’t go that far—yell at him, definitely; refuse to talk to him for a week, probably; but Joe already knows this about her.  

“Just don’t tell him until after he’s driven us home,” Joe says.  Patricia manages a weak grin at that, and Joe’s smart enough to realize that’s good enough for now.  

 

 

**iii.**

The mirror on the back of Pete’s door feels bigger than any mirror in Patricia’s house, but usually she can ignore it.  Tonight, though, Pete has his door firmly shut so he can glance at it every five seconds to make sure his hair is in place and his eyeliner hasn’t smudged.  Every time he looks over, she can’t help herself from imitating him even though it means catching glimpses of herself in the froofy green prom dress she dug out of her closet for the night.

“I look like an idiot,” she says eventually, while Pete re-ties his tie for the eighth time.  “Tell me again why we agreed to this?”

“Because,” Pete says, fussing with his jacket.  “It’s gonna be awesome.”

 _Awesome_ is hardly the word Patricia would use to describe anything at the moment.  Besides, Pete’s lying; the one and only reason they agreed, on less than fifty hours’ notice, to play some girl’s blowout sweet sixteen was because they needed a paying gig to convince Andy to stay in their band.

Patricia is generally a fan of Andy.  He’s funny, nerdy enough to get her dumb jokes, and good enough at drumming that Patricia doesn’t constantly have to fight the urge to correct him.  The fact that she likes him so much is probably the only reason she’s going through with this gig at all.  When Pete had told them two days ago that he’d found them somewhere to play, Patricia hadn’t expected the occasion to require formal dress.

“I look like an idiot,” she says, again.

“You look like, I dunno,” says Pete, actually glancing away from the mirror long enough to take in her outfit.  “Fucking Cinderella or something.  Except you don’t need a magic slipper because your voice is, like, the magic slipper.”

“Cinderella’s dress was blue,” Patricia points out.  She doesn’t even bother touching the rest of the sentence because Pete rarely makes sense in his metaphors.  

“Who had a green dress?” Pete asks.  “The Little Mermaid or some shit?  I dunno.”

“I’m not a fucking Disney princess,” Patricia snaps.  “And I don’t need fucking everyone staring at my dress while I play.”  Pete’s eyes flash away from her for a second in guilt.  Patricia wasn’t talking so much about him, but she doesn’t know how to explain that difference without  it sounding awkward.  “I just want to look like I fit with the rest of you,” she mutters, after a second.  

“Oh,” says Pete.  “I mean—of course you fit in with us.  But, you know, no one’s making you wear it or anything.”  

“Says the asshole who set up a formal gig for us,” Patricia grits out.  

“Okay,” says Pete, standing up and walking over to his closet.  “So we’ll find something else.”

Patricia bites back all the rude responses she could give, because Pete’s genuine in his offer of help.  “In the ten minutes before Joe gets here?” she asks.

“Sure.” Pete shoves his hangers as far to the right as possible—somewhat a losing battle because his closet holds far more clothes than any closet should be able to hold—and for a second, Patricia thinks he’s going for his hidden stash of dresses or something.  She wouldn’t put it past him.  Instead, he grabs a white button-down shirt that’s not even too badly wrinkled and a pair of black slacks.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“What color tie?” Pete asks.  “Purple?  Blue?  Green?  We can call it an homage to your dress.” He grabs the light green one before she has time to answer and then deposits the stack of clothes on the bed next to her.  “There.  Try those on.”

Patricia looks at the outfit disdainfully, but it actually does seem like a better option than trying to play in what she’s currently wearing.  “Fine,” she says.  “No peeking.”  

She watches Pete until he’s on his bed, facing the other wall, pillow smushed into his face.  Thirty seconds and a few awkward reaches later, she realizes her mistake.

“Pete?” she asks.

“I’m _not_ ,” Pete protests, words muffled by the pillow.

“No, I  know,” she says.  “Um, I need you to unzip me first.”  

“Oh,” says Pete.  “So I can look?”

“Yeah.”  Patricia stands stock-still, not daring to turn around, and tries not to focus on the way that she can feel Pete approaching.  His hands are soft and gentle as he undoes the fishhook and slides the zipper down to the middle of her back.  He pauses for a second and it’s all Patricia can do to force out a “thanks.”

“Yeah, no worries,” says Pete.  He retreats, and the moment Patricia hears him settle on his bed again she lets the dress drop to the ground.  Pete’s pants fit her better than she expected, excepting the fact that they’re too long, but that can be easily fixed with a couple of pins.  The shirt is another story.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” she says once she’s buttoned it as high as it can go.  It shows more cleavage than her dress, which is an impressive feat, and the second she tries to sing she’s probably going to pop a button.

“It’s just a shirt and slacks,” says Pete.  “How can it not—oh.”  Patricia feels her blush go all the way down her chest.  “Um, I might have something that’s a bit bigger?  I don’t think most of my shirts are cut to fit, uh.”  

Patricia never thought she’d actually be grateful for Pete’s clothes-hoarding habit, but when he comes out with a shimmery white dress shirt, she considers changing her stance.  “Try that?” Pete asks.  “And if not we can ask Joe or something.  Hey, yeah, put that on and I’ll call him and see if he has an extra jacket too.”

Patricia takes off the other shirt before she actually does any damage and is pleasantly surprised by the fact that the new one buttons all the way up.  In the background, Pete has convinced Joe to bring a blazer or two for her to try on; hopefully one of them will fit, because Patricia has a feeling she’s going to sweat through this shirt in five seconds flat.

“Pete?” she asks again, once he’s done heckling Joe.  “How do you tie a tie?”

“Here,” he says, “can I?”  

She holds her breath as he makes the knot and tightens it.  “Okay?” he asks.  “You can still sing and all?”  

“Yeah,” says Patricia, smoothing it down.  “I’ll be fine.”  

“Cool,” says Pete, “Here, what do you think?”  He turns her so they’re both visible in the frame of the mirror, and throws an arm around her shoulder.  “We look pretty good, right?”  

“Yeah,” says Patricia, somewhat surprised by the fact.

“So you’re gonna be okay for the show?”

Patricia nods; with her major complaint solved, all that’s left is the frisson of nerves that starts up every time she learns she has to step on stage.

A few seconds later there’s a knock at the door from below and then Joe yells, “get down here already, I have your jacket.”

Pete opens the door and gestures Patricia through.  “Your magic carriage awaits,” he says.

“Fuck you,” Patricia shoots back, but she doesn’t mean it.  Not tonight.

 

 

**iv.**

“Who the fuck did the laundry?” Patricia shouts, storming into Pete and Joe’s hotel room.  Andy had handed over the extra key and given her permission to yell at her bandmates a scant few minutes earlier, and she doesn’t want to waste the opportunity before he changes his mind.

“Huh?” says Joe, looking up at her.  Patricia tries to ignore the heavy smell of pot smoke filling the room because she wants to believe that her yelling will have optimal effects.  

“Who.  Did.  The.  Laundry.”  she says.  “And fucked up my clothes.”

“Whoa, Trish, you okay?” Pete asks; she glares, and he raises his hands in defeat.  “Wasn’t me,” he says.

Patricia turns her glare to Joe, who cowers.  “You never sort the lights from the darks either,” he points out.

“Well I also don’t crank the heat up to max on the dryer,” she says.  “Know why?  Because cotton shrinks when you do that, you dumbshit, and then your clothes don’t fit!”

“Oh,” says Joe.  Pete doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” says Patricia.  “Oh?  You just fucked up my wardrobe, asshole, and we have a show tomorrow.  _Oh_?”

“Hey, so we’ll figure something out before then,” says Pete.  “Crisis mode.  Right?  Joe?”

“Like what,” Patricia asks.

Pete shrugs.  “I mean, that’s totally a look,” he says, gesturing to the inch of bare skin between the bottom of Patricia’s shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

“Yeah, for you.”

“You pull it off,” says Pete.  Patricia glares harder.  “Okay, I know, you don’t want to,” he says.  “We’ll find you something else to wear.  Right, Joe?  And then when we get paid if we have any left over after food and gas money we can go shopping.”  

It’s actually a better plan than Patricia had expected, but she doesn’t want to let it show.  “Fine,” she says, “you fucking do that.”  She stomps out of their room before she accidentally forgives them, and slams the door behind her.

When she gets back to the room she’s sharing with Andy, he doesn’t ask any questions.  This is why Patricia likes Andy; he’s a smart guy.  He’s even unplugged the lamp and moved the nightstand between their beds so Patricia can fit her Mac charger into the plug without any trouble.  When she snaps on her headphones, her energy is half righteous satisfaction, half fierce gratitude.  

It’s not until Andy taps on her shoulder that Patricia looks at the clock and realizes she’s been working for hours.  “Yeah?” she asks, sliding off one of her headphones.

“Mind if I turn off the light?” Andy asks.  

“That’s fine,” says Patricia.  She yawns and stretches.  “I should probably get some sleep anyway.”  

“Sleep well,” says Andy.

“Night.”  Patricia grabs her cosmetics bag and shuts herself in the bathroom, trying to ignore the way hotel lighting makes her already pale skin look more washed out.  Still, she takes her time washing her face and brushing her teeth.  She loves touring, but on a good night, she still has to share a hotel room with one of her bandmates.  Bathroom time is about the only alone time she gets.  

Patricia snaps off the bathroom light and shuffles back over to her bed, cautious of any obstacles.  When her eyes finally adjust, she notices a decidedly Pete-shaped figure there.  “What,” she hisses, tugging the covers back on the opposite side of the bed.

“I found you a shirt,” whispers Pete, holding it out proudly.

“Great,” says Patricia, “Except I told Joe to find me a shirt because he fucked everything up in the first place.”

“Joe doesn’t get to help you with fashion emergencies,” Pete says.  “That’s my job.”

“Since when?” Patricia climbs into bed and tugs at the covers.  She might even succeed were it not for Pete’s weight holding them down.  

“Anyhow, Joe has terrible taste,” Pete continues, like everything he’s just said isn’t completely made up.

“Since _when_?”  Patricia repeats.

“Since always?” Pete asks.  “I lend you clothes and stuff already.  Sometimes when I’m bored I design outfits that you can wear when we have award shows and stuff.”

“No, you don’t,” says Patricia.  Like she would ever put on anything Pete Wentz deemed decent for an award show.

“Hey,” says Pete.  “At least give them a chance first.  I did make them things you would actually wear, you know.  At least two of them are suits.”  

Patricia grabs the shirt from Pete’s hand to shut him up, but he keeps talking.  “If I do dresses I make them…Patricia dresses,” he says.  “They’re not showy or anything.  Promise.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wearing your stupid clothes,” Patricia says.  When she sees Pete’s face fall, she backtracks out of sympathy.  “We’re probably never going to make it to any award shows anyway,” she says.  “We can barely fund a shitty tour.”  

“We’re just starting,” says Pete.  “We’ll make it.  Will you give me a chance, though?”  Pete must know, just like Patricia, that she’s given him far too many chances to count; she has no reason to keep saying yes (except that most of them work out in the end).

“Are you going to stay here?” she asks, rather than commit to anything.  “If so, get off of the covers, please.”  

Pete clambers into Patricia’s bed and pulls the sheet up over both of them.  When he curls up behind her, his arm comes to a rest over the skin left bare by her newly-shrunken pajama shirt.  “We’re totally gonna win awards, Trish,” Pete whispers into her hair.  “You know that, right?  I feel like it works better if you believe it with me.”

“Go to sleep, Pete,” she says.  “It’s late.”  

“Night,” he whispers, kissing her shoulder blade gently.  Patricia tries to exhale normally and hopes Pete can’t feel the way her heart is drumming in her chest.  For once, Pete drops off almost immediately.  

Patricia doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

 

 

**v.**

When Pete opens their hotel window and sticks his head out, the resultant screams can probably be heard around the block.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says, turning around to look at Patricia and Joe.  “We’re fucking famous.”

“No shit, dude,” says Joe.  He’s still in bed, because he doesn’t have to leave for the radio promotion that Patricia and Pete have to do.  Patricia has never envied him more.

Pete leans out the window again and waves at the crowd below, causing a second round of screams.  Patricia checks her phone.  They have to leave in fifteen minutes at the latest, and she’s not sure Pete can assuage his ego by then.

“Fucking shut up,” says Joe.  “Jesus Christ, Wentz, go commune with your fangirls somewhere else so I can get some sleep.”

“One of them has a sign with my name in a heart,” says Pete, giddy.  “I’m going to give her a hug.  Trish, can I give her a hug?”

“I don’t care who you hug,” says Patricia, “as long as you don’t make us late.”  

“Ouch,” says Pete.  “I care who _you_ hug.”

“No you don’t,” says Patricia, glaring at his back.  “I hug whoever the fuck I want.”  

“Great,” Joe says, heading off the argument he must know is coming.  “Glad that’s resolved between you two, then.  Shut the motherfucking window so I don’t have to hear it when you actually venture out among them.”

“Oh,” says Patricia as things snap into place in her brain, “shit.”  

“Don’t worry, there’s totally a group of Patricia fanboys too,” says Pete.  “So you can hug them and I totally won’t care.”

“I think I might see if there’s a back door?” she says.  It’s not that Patricia doesn’t like to talk to her fans, but it’s early in the morning and if any of them get too grabby she might find herself with an assault charge.  

“Aw, Trish, c’mon,” says Pete.  “You’re almost as famous as me now!”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Patricia reflexively.  Pete grins back at her.  “Seriously,” she says, “it’s early, we have a radio spot to do, and this hotel coffee tastes like ass.  I don’t want people fawning over me as I walk down the street.”

“You probably should just leave Pete behind then,” says Joe, rolling over to look at them.  “Am I going to get any more sleep today, or are you two assholes going to ruin it all?”  

“Hang on,” says Pete.  “We’ll leave in a second, Joe, just gotta disguise Trish first.”

“I don’t need a disguise,” says Patricia.  Really, all she wants is a good cup of coffee and a trip outside where she doesn’t have to constantly worry that someone is watching her every move.  A few more hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt either, but she’ll take what she can get.

“Yes you do,” says Pete, dumping half of his suitcase out onto the floor.  “Here.”

The shirt he pulls out is old, faded and nondescript, and for a second Patricia thinks she might just save herself an argument and go along with his plan, but then Pete grabs a pair of tight purple skinny jeans.  “Oh hell no,” Patricia says.  “I can keep my own jeans, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Pete asks.  “What about red, are you feeling red today?”

“Pete,” she says, “Come on.”  

“Fine.”  He snags one of his brightest hoodies out of the suitcase and sets it with the shirt before shuffling through the pile of clothes on the floor.  “What about these?”

“Good enough,” says Patricia.  The pair of jeans on offer is black and doesn’t look exceedingly tight, which is about as good as she’s going to get from Pete.  She grabs them before he changes his mind and shuts herself in the bathroom to change.  

Wearing guys’ jeans always throws her off a bit, but at least they look okay.  They might even be fresher than her pair, which is going on to day four.  The hoodie is a bit more of a statement than she wants to make but she wears it anyway because she recognizes it as one of Pete’s designs.  

“Hey,” says Pete, rapping on the bathroom door.  “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”  No sooner are the words out of Patricia’s mouth than the door swings open, and Pete crowds her up against the sink so he can smoosh an ivy cap onto her head.

“There,” he says, grinning at her.  “Now no one will guess.  You ready?”

“Where’s my coffee?” asks Patricia.

“Desk,” says Pete, nudging her toward it.  “And your wallet.”  The pride in his voice means he puts it there specifically because he knew she’d ask.

“Thanks,” says Patricia, grabbing her stuff and then shutting the door quietly behind herself and Pete.  He leads her down the stairs and nudges her away from the front lobby.  A few yards down a hallway she’s never been through he makes an abrupt right and lets them outside.  There’s already a car waiting.  

“Oh,” she says, feeling like a bit of an ass for not appreciating Pete more.  He grins at her and gestures her in.  

Things go a bit more smoothly after that, mainly because they make a Starbucks stop before hitting up the radio station, meaning Patricia can get a drink that doesn’t taste entirely like ass.  Pete is, as always, a lifesaver in interviews because he jokes with the hosts long enough for Patricia to get her bearings.  No one asks any asshole questions (“So, must be pretty easy to get your way when you’re in a band with three other guys, huh?”  “Do you plan at any point to go on a tour diet?”  “Isn’t it hard to have to sing songs about girls?”) and she hits every note of her acoustic performance.

After, she and Pete are supposed to go back to the hotel and do some writing, but Patricia has the itch to get out and do something.  Being on tour always gives them an overabundance of time to work on music anyway, and frankly, she’s been a bit blocked of late.   

“You sure this is a good idea?” Pete asks, after she finishes her discussion with the driver.  “No holding me responsible if your fanboys find us.”

Patricia shrugs.  “I just thought it would be fun,” she says.  “I guess we don’t have to.”  Pete shrugs, but he doesn’t say no.  

The driver drops them at an outdoor mall, where Pete proceeds to hunt down all the terrible souvenirs he can find while Patricia searches for a music store.  They make it exactly seventeen minutes before they pass a teenage girl who turns bright red and elbows her friend as she whispers, “that’s Pete _Wentz_ ” and then Pete has to stop for hugs and autographs and it’s only a few seconds before the girls realize who Patricia is.  

“It was a valiant effort,” Pete says when they’ve gone, tugging on the brim of Patricia’s cap.  “The world just loves you too much.”

Patricia never expected the disguise to work anyway, so it’s not really a loss.  “More like everyone knows who you are, and makes the connection,” says Patricia.  “It’s not like you walk around with random people who look like this.”

“Well,” says Pete, “no, because why would I walk around with people who _looked like_ you when I could be walking around with actually you?”

“Still,” says Patricia.  “You kind of ruin the disguise.”

“Hm,” says Pete.  “I guess I should dress up too.  Here, what do you think?”  He grabs a pair of oversized sunglasses off a rack and models them for her with his best goofy face.  Patricia sort of hates the fact that he looks good anyway, and hates the fact that he knows what she’s thinking.  

“Since our cover’s been blown anyway, wanna go for lunch?” Pete asks.  

“Hell yes,” says Patricia.  “Think we can find something decently nice around here?  I would kill for a meal that doesn’t come from a gas station chef.”

Pete gestures to the frames on his face.  “Just let me pay.”

The glasses don’t disguise Pete at all, but Patricia’s in a good enough mood to hold his hand as they walk into the restaurant and wait to be seated.  

“See?” Pete gloats, after the hostess has helped them, “she didn’t even know who we were!”

Patricia thinks that has more to do with the fact that they’re actually not as famous as Pete thinks they are, but she keeps it to herself.  It’s nice, sometimes, to be as invisible as everyone else.  

  

 

**&.**

“Everyone is going to stare,” says Pete, smoothing his hands nervously over the skirt Patricia’s loaned him.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” she says.  “But they might not, you know.  Did you change your mind?”

Pete shrugs and fiddles with the wig Patricia bought him; dark brown with blonde highlights.  

“We can stay here,” says Patricia.  “If you want.”  She pats Pete’s knee reassuringly, but gets sidetracked by how smooth his skin is, recently shaved by a razor that he stole from her without asking.  Patricia has plans to yell at him for it later, but right now she’s too busy enjoying the results.

“Hey, hey,” says Pete, pushing her hand away from the hem of his skirt.  “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“You would be,” says Patricia.  “Don’t deny it.”  

Pete links their fingers together.  “Truth,” he says.  “I would have tried to sleep with you to get in your band if I’d been the girl.”

“Like I would have fallen for that.”

“Now you’re the liar.”  

Patricia scrunches her nose and tries to imagine herself younger again.  “No,” she decides.  “I wouldn’t just let some talentless asshole into my band, even if she was super hot.  You’d still have to be somewhat decent at bass.”

“I was shitty at bass when we met,” Pete interjects.

“Well, you didn’t tell me that until after I was in the band.”  Until after he’d convinced her they should be a band in the first place.  “Joe _vouched_ for you.”

Pete shrugs, that bit of harmless exaggeration long forgiven and forgotten.  “Well it’s not like I would have tried to play bass to get you in bed with me.”

“Really,” says Patricia, “no Wonderwall?”

“Nah,” says Pete.  “I don’t need that to get laid.”  He turns to her, glancing up through his eyelashes—he’s put on false ones, despite Patricia’s protestations that he doesn’t really need them because his eyelashes are more visible than hers already—and she feels a twist in her stomach.  

“Are we going or not?” she asks, hopping off the bed.  They’re going to miss their reservation if they carry on like this.  “Wentz.  _Seriously_.”

Pete stops reaching for her out of sheer surprise.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, we are.”

“Good.  Then come on.”  She carefully doesn’t look at him in case her resolve weakens, because she knows Pete is just nervous enough that she could talk him out of this whole thing without much trouble.  

“All the tabloids are going to say that I turned you into a lesbian,” Pete says, following her to the door.  “And forever make cracks about you dating women.”

Patricia doubts anyone will notice them, frankly, because Pete’s the one who always draws cameras; she’s just a sideshow.  “Let them talk,” she says.  “You and me know what’s up, right?”

“Yeah,” says Pete, taking a deep breath as Patricia pulls the door open.  She reaches back for his hand and links their fingers together, aware of the way Pete’s heartbeat is fluttering in his wrist.  “We do.”


End file.
